“Yeah,” he says casually. “Forgot to mention Brennan got a little stabby when he realized we weren’t letting him go.”
I immediately try to slide off the bar. “We need to get you to the hospital before you bleed out.”
He smothers back a smile and leans in just enough to give me a quick kiss. “Not needed, darlin’. It’s just a scratch. Nothing worth going to the hospital over.”
Before I can argue, Stitch drops his medical kit onto the bar beside us. He’s a club brother and I’ve seen him around. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
He grabs Onyx’s arm, extends it, and sprays the wound with distilled water before wiping it down with gauze. I watch every movement, my stomach twisting. Stitch’s expression finally relaxes a little.
Meanwhile, Onyx grabs a bottle of whiskey, takes a long drink, and swallows before speaking.
“See?” he says. “I told you it was nothin’.”
“You got lucky,” Stitch replies. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit any major arteries.”
He waves the bottle dismissively. “Just sew that shit up so I can celebrate properly with my old lady.”
His father’s voice cuts in from nearby. “What’s going on with you, son? Did you hit your head? You’re not normally a dick to the only brother here who can save you a trip to the ER.”
He straightens like he’s been called to attention, clearly surprised that his little joke didn’t land better.
Before he can respond, Stitch interjects, “It’s okay, I’m used to these assholes. Even if he was in hypovolemic shock, he’d probably still be talking shit.”
“Hypo what?” he asks, taking another swig. “I’m not hypo anything. I’m just goddamn happy we finally took the killer trying to get his filthy hands on my old lady, off the streets.”
I realize that he’s still caging me in like he’s worried that I’ll run away now that I’m not in danger anymore. I’m not running anymore because I’m happy right where I am. We’ll have to talk about this but now is not the time.
Queenie appears, tugging Rock back by the arm. “If you’re going to dull the pain with whiskey, at least be hygienic and use a shot glass.” She sets one down in front of him.
He tries to pour one-handed and makes a mess. I watch as he fumbles, then grabs the glass, downs the shot, and reaches for the bottle again.
I snatch it up before he can get to it.
“You’d best let me pour,” I say gently. “I’ve got a steady hand.”
A slow smile spreads across his face as I tip the bottle and deliberately pour only half a shot. I want him sober for what I’ve got to tell him later.
Stitch stands beside him, with his sleeves rolled up, and a needle and thread held in a pair of curved stainless steel pliers. He’s calm, focused, and professional. I have to remind myself that despite the leather vest and his appearance, he’s actually a trained medic.
At least I think he is.
I try to stay calm too, but I can’t help but worry. “You should be at a hospital,” I whisper.
“I’ve had worse injuries,” he says, taking another drink and setting the bottle down.
Stitch glances up at me. “For what it’s worth, I would be a doctor if I’d taken my boards.”
That makes me blink. “Are you kidding me?” I ask, stunned by the latest bit of information.
“Nope.” he says, already stitching again. “I finished med school. I even got high scores.”
“Then why are you here?” I say, gesturing helplessly at his blood-covered hands and the needle stuck halfway through Onyx’s skin. “Instead of working at a hospital?”
Stitch snorts a laugh. “Because I didn’t feel like spending my life asking permission to help people, and being afraid to do anything for risk of being sued for malpractice.”
Laughter ripples down the bar. Jasper shakes his head, Mica grins and even Onyx can’t keep the smile off his face.
“Besides,” Stitch adds, tying off the stitch with practiced ease, “I’m right where I want to be.”
